Read Online Lust Or No Harm Done by Geoff Ryman - Free Book Online
Authors: Geoff Ryman
Tags: prose_contemporary
Ads: Link
to tell him his sexuality was wrong? If this is what he really wanted, he could stay here, warm and sheltered. If this was some new sexual home, why leave it? Michael stroked the smooth firm backs of Tarzan's arms.
'Pee pee,' said Tarzan. He stood up and discovered with wonder that the toilet flushed. He roared at the gushing of clear water, knelt and began to drink from it, lapping like a lion. He looked up in delight.
It was nearly 2:00 pm. Time to go. Tarzan had no concept of time or work, and tried to keep Michael with him, holding his arm, stroking it. In the end, Michael had to disperse him.
He didn't want to see Tarzan dissolve like a TV channel. Michael simply turned away and heard something like a gust of wind, and felt a sudden hollowness in the room behind him. Every trace of jungle was gone, including the smell of Max Factor.
At reception, he coughed and asked like an out-of-town guest about local restaurants. Tomorrow morning he would check out and pay his bill as if he had spent the night there.
Michael walked back through Archbishop's Park. It was a dull grey English spring, stark with no leaves on the trees. He thought of Tarzan's body, its pre-pubescent smoothness, of his tenderness and the caresses. The main sensation in the pit of his stomach was fear, as if he were still taking that first trip to California.
Circumstances meant that an unexpected question was answered next.
Can I make them do it when I'm not there?
'We've got an invitation,' Philip said, opening their post. 'It's from Zoltan Caparthi,' he said. 'You know, the glass artist? The one who does those fabulous piss-takes of beauty contests? He's invited us. Well, you me and whoever else we want to bring. He said everybody's lover has a lover, and they must come too. Do you want to come? Can you bring someone interesting?'
'Oh,' said Michael, 'I think so.'
'I'll meet you there,' said Phil. 'With mine.'
The house had a name: the Looking Glass. A sign said so, in a cluster of mirrors and neon and preserved feather boas high up, out of the reach of vandals. The walls were painted mauve covered with mirror stars along the top.
Michael arrived alone and rang the bell with a shiver of mingled anticipation and inadequacy. He held a John Lewis shopping bag full of his costume.
The door was opened by a young man dressed like Carmen Miranda. A Salvador Dali moustache was painted on his upper lip.
'Hello, I'm Billy, welcome!'
Billy kissed him on the cheek and ushered him in. There was a kind of combination office, kitchen and reception area, covered in cork with photographs pinned to the walls. There was no one else. Michael had come on time, and was the first to arrive. 'You want to change?' Billy asked.
'Yes indeed,' said Michael, feeling dowdy. 'I'm… I'm…' He tried to think of the formula: somebody's amputated other half. He showed the invitation.
Billy completed the sentence. 'You're one of the optional extras. So am I. I'm the son of the woman who keeps Zoltan's books. You and I will have more fun than all these old slags because it's all new to us. Now. I want your drink ready when you come out looking fabulous. What do you fancy?'
Michael was scared of being boring so he said, 'A margarita.'
'I meant herbal tea,' said Billy.
Michael smiled at himself. 'I don't know anything about herbal tea. Choose the nicest.'
Billy smiled too. 'The nicest for the nicest,' he said.
Michael went into the bathroom as himself and came out with Tarzan. He wore Tarzan, Tarzan was his costume. Weissmuller loomed over him, loose-limbed, brown, sprawling, barefoot. Michael wore a concealing leopard skin that crossed his chest and hid his belly, as if he were plump. If anyone asked he would say he had come as Boy.
Billy looked a bit confused. 'Two herbal teas, then.'
'Yes, thank you.'
Tarzan approved. 'Tea good. Tea come from jungle.'
'This is… uh… Johnny,' Michael explained.
'Hello Johnny.' Billy was young enough that a beautiful
'Pee pee,' said Tarzan. He stood up and discovered with wonder that the toilet flushed. He roared at the gushing of clear water, knelt and began to drink from it, lapping like a lion. He looked up in delight.
It was nearly 2:00 pm. Time to go. Tarzan had no concept of time or work, and tried to keep Michael with him, holding his arm, stroking it. In the end, Michael had to disperse him.
He didn't want to see Tarzan dissolve like a TV channel. Michael simply turned away and heard something like a gust of wind, and felt a sudden hollowness in the room behind him. Every trace of jungle was gone, including the smell of Max Factor.
At reception, he coughed and asked like an out-of-town guest about local restaurants. Tomorrow morning he would check out and pay his bill as if he had spent the night there.
Michael walked back through Archbishop's Park. It was a dull grey English spring, stark with no leaves on the trees. He thought of Tarzan's body, its pre-pubescent smoothness, of his tenderness and the caresses. The main sensation in the pit of his stomach was fear, as if he were still taking that first trip to California.
Circumstances meant that an unexpected question was answered next.
Can I make them do it when I'm not there?
'We've got an invitation,' Philip said, opening their post. 'It's from Zoltan Caparthi,' he said. 'You know, the glass artist? The one who does those fabulous piss-takes of beauty contests? He's invited us. Well, you me and whoever else we want to bring. He said everybody's lover has a lover, and they must come too. Do you want to come? Can you bring someone interesting?'
'Oh,' said Michael, 'I think so.'
'I'll meet you there,' said Phil. 'With mine.'
The house had a name: the Looking Glass. A sign said so, in a cluster of mirrors and neon and preserved feather boas high up, out of the reach of vandals. The walls were painted mauve covered with mirror stars along the top.
Michael arrived alone and rang the bell with a shiver of mingled anticipation and inadequacy. He held a John Lewis shopping bag full of his costume.
The door was opened by a young man dressed like Carmen Miranda. A Salvador Dali moustache was painted on his upper lip.
'Hello, I'm Billy, welcome!'
Billy kissed him on the cheek and ushered him in. There was a kind of combination office, kitchen and reception area, covered in cork with photographs pinned to the walls. There was no one else. Michael had come on time, and was the first to arrive. 'You want to change?' Billy asked.
'Yes indeed,' said Michael, feeling dowdy. 'I'm… I'm…' He tried to think of the formula: somebody's amputated other half. He showed the invitation.
Billy completed the sentence. 'You're one of the optional extras. So am I. I'm the son of the woman who keeps Zoltan's books. You and I will have more fun than all these old slags because it's all new to us. Now. I want your drink ready when you come out looking fabulous. What do you fancy?'
Michael was scared of being boring so he said, 'A margarita.'
'I meant herbal tea,' said Billy.
Michael smiled at himself. 'I don't know anything about herbal tea. Choose the nicest.'
Billy smiled too. 'The nicest for the nicest,' he said.
Michael went into the bathroom as himself and came out with Tarzan. He wore Tarzan, Tarzan was his costume. Weissmuller loomed over him, loose-limbed, brown, sprawling, barefoot. Michael wore a concealing leopard skin that crossed his chest and hid his belly, as if he were plump. If anyone asked he would say he had come as Boy.
Billy looked a bit confused. 'Two herbal teas, then.'
'Yes, thank you.'
Tarzan approved. 'Tea good. Tea come from jungle.'
'This is… uh… Johnny,' Michael explained.
'Hello Johnny.' Billy was young enough that a beautiful
Similar Books
